an ever-fixed mark
by Trumpet-Geek
Summary: [viktuuri] Viktor could write poems about the soft pink that paints his cheeks and nose. He could pen lyrics about the slope of Yuuri's smile and the way he bites his lip to try to keep the laughter inside. The bubbling heat of the feelings he induces in Viktor would be more than enough protection from even the harshest of Russian winters.


**an ever-fixed mark**

 _By_ : TG

 _Summary_ : Yuuri is absolutely gorgeous. Viktor could write poems about the soft pink that paints his cheeks and nose. He could pen lyrics about the slope of Yuuri's smile and the way he bites his lip to try to keep the laughter inside. The sparkle in Yuuri's eyes would be enough to give hope to even the most lovelorn soul. The warmth of Yuuri's body pressed against his and the bubbling heat of the feelings he induces in Viktor would be more than enough protection from even the harshest of Russian winters.

Yuuri laughs again and ducks his head, embarrassed, and Viktor covers his mouth with his hand because he thinks he may have said some of that out loud. Oops.

Disclaimer: I don't own yuri on ice

Warnings: here there be sex and fluff so potent u risk cavities

AN: look a real yoi fic

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Viktor marries Yuuri in April beneath a sky full of swirling pink cherry blossoms.

Yuuri had quietly told him after winning gold at Japanese Nationals that he'd like to have their wedding ceremony in Japan, and Viktor had agreed immediately — in part because it certainly couldn't be held in Russia, and he'd like to have it somewhere that feels like home, but mostly he'd agreed because he's fallen as much in love with the town that shaped his fiancé as he has with Yuuri himself.

He'd made his fiancé agree to two conditions though — one, that he'd be allowed to offset the simplicity of the Shinto ceremony with a raucous after-party, and two, that they get married when the cherry blossoms hit their peak and begin to fall, because the tiny pink petals remind Viktor of softly falling snow.

(And he'd thought Yuuri would look breathtakingly gorgeous in his traditional wedding attire against a backdrop of soft pink and ocean blue.)

(As it turns out, he'd been right.)

Yuuri stands there at the shrine not far from Yu-Topia in his hakama, hair slicked back and eyes the color of rich red wine and honeyed chocolate, and Viktor feels himself stumble a bit, because his heart is suddenly so full of love and his lungs so full of the sweet-smelling snow gathering in Yuuri's hair, and his eyes so full of the pretty pink flush that spills across Yuuri's nose and cheeks. Yuuri looks gorgeous in anything he wears or doesn't wear, but the sight of him there, waiting for Viktor, is enough to steal the breath right out of him.

Yuuri –- nervous, shy, strong Yuuri — looks up and meets his gaze and, _god_ , Viktor's stomach positively _erupts_ into thousand flapping butterflies at the automatic way Yuuri's face lights up at the sight of him.

This is something he will have, now, for the rest of his life.

Every day from now on he'll get to wake up to the sight of Yuuri's scrunched up morning grumpy-face, will get to spend his in-between moments with his palm pressed to Yuuri's and their fingers hopelessly tangled together. He will get to spend evenings cooking and washing dishes and folding clothes and shouting answers to asinine game show questions while Yuuri rolls his eyes on the couch next to him. He'll get to fall asleep to the rhythmic expansion and contraction of Yuuri's chest against his back and the feeling of Yuuri's hot breath on his neck. And then he'll get to do it all over again, every day, forever.

Yuri and Mari step smoothly up behind them, pretty silver crowns resting in their hands — the one Russian tradition that Yuuri had insisted on including. Viktor had been indifferent to the inclusion of Russian traditions — Orthodox weddings could be quite long and tedious, and reminded him too much of overt glances and whispers behind hands.

(He rocks up onto the balls of his feet when Yuri moves to place the crown on his head, teasing him even now, and laughs when Yuri gets fed up with it and kicks Viktor's shin).

But as soon as Mari slips the crown onto her brother's head Viktor has to bite his lip. He feels his face heat up at the sight of him, and Yuuri's blushes all the way down his neck in response.

He spends the rest of the ceremony in a daze, barely aware of anything except for Yuuri next to him and the space between their bodies. The priest presses three cups of rice wine into their hands for them to sip and reads from a paper, asking blessings on their marriage. Yuuri says the groom's vows —

("We swear to love and respect each other forever —")

( _Forever forever forever_ , Viktor's brain repeats, like a wants forever with Yuuri so badly his hands shake.)

— and he's barely able to slide Yuuri's ring onto his finger, but Yuuri gives him a small, alluring smile that says he knows, he understands, he feels it too.

When the ceremony finishes with an offering of evergreen sprigs, Yuuri grins bright enough to light up the whole world, and Viktor slides his fingers between Yuuri's and thinks, satisfied, _my husband._

Viktor wants time to stand still, wants to fill every nanosecond with memories of the wrinkles at the corners of Yuuri's smiling eyes and the paths of his happy tears as they fall silently down his cheeks. He wants to document every shade of blush on his love's cheeks. He wants to remember the way Yuuri's lips formed the words and the exact pitch of his voice when he tells Viktor he loves him. He wants to imprint Hiroko's tearful smile and the downright joyous curl of Yuri's lips and the softness in Chris's shining green eyes into his very being.

He makes a real effort at it, because each second contains multitudes —

( _Yuuri_ contains multitudes)

— but as it is he cannot control time; one moment passes into another, and the ceremony is done. Before he realizes it, he has been transformed into Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov.

And then they are headed back to Yu-topia, and Viktor's requested raucous party takes over and the mood turns from reverent to celebratory. There is food but most importantly there are drinks, and their guests — Viktor's family, now — waste no time in finding the bottoms of their glasses. Viktor follows suit, and after some good-natured ribbing from Mari, so does Yuuri.

It quickly devolves.

A drunk Toshiya has pulled out a couple of photo albums and an equally drunk Phichit wobbles over to coo at how sweet Yuuri looked when he was small, which turns into weeping when they both realize that he's married to his childhood idol.

Viktor gets pulled away from his husband to sing sloppy karaoke songs with Chris and JJ. Chris dumps them both for a brief solo career and then abandons that in favor of stripping. Minako and JJ stuff wadded up bills into Chris' boxer briefs as he gyrates to Rihanna's _S &M _and laugh as Viktor plucks them deftly out to put in his honeymoon fund.

Yuri tries very hard to look like he's not _at all_ amused or having a remotely good time, but everyone's already got his number. A couple hours into the party he gives up the charade and does what he's clearly been itching to do — challenge Yuuri to a dance-off rematch. The partygoers work diligently to clear the floor and Chris stops his gyrating to officiate, which is good — great, even — because Viktor is incapable of being impartial when his husband shows off his moves.

(Yuuri handily wins, and Yuri tries to be angry about it but Yuuri is so happy that it's hard for anyone to be angry about anything, even Yuri.)

Yu-topia is a mess of bodies and spilled alcohol, and the music from different corners mixes together in a way that isn't wholly pleasant, but Viktor has never felt as full of life and love as he does here and now among all this chaos. These people — his friends, his family — are here because they planned for it. With Viktor and Yuuri in their minds, they cleared their schedules, bought plane tickets and presents, flew halfway across the world. Maybe Viktor's had more to drink than he thought, but that's kind of blowing his mind right now. He'd felt alone and lonely for years, especially off the ice, so seeing all of these smiling faces here _for_ him, _because_ of him, celebrating the fact that he loves Yuuri, is nothing short of incredible.

Yuuri distracts him by dropping down next to him, out of breath and laughing and so _pretty_ , and everything else is erased. He's absolutely gorgeous. Viktor could write poems about the soft pink that paints his cheeks and nose. He could pen lyrics about the slope of Yuuri's smile and the way he bites his lip to try to keep the laughter inside. The sparkle in Yuuri's eyes would be enough to give hope to even the most lovelorn soul. The warmth of Yuuri's body pressed against his and the bubbling heat of the feelings he induces in Viktor would be more than enough protection from even the harshest of Russian winters.

Yuuri laughs again and ducks his head, embarrassed, and Viktor covers his mouth with his hand because he thinks he may have said some of that out loud. Oops. But Yuuri just blushes and slides his fingers in between Viktor's beneath the table. Yuuri's wedding ring is warm from the heat of his body. Beautiful beautiful beautiful. Yuuri is gorgeous.

Yuuri Katsuki-Nikiforov, his husband.

At some point during the festivities — Viktor can't say when, exactly, because all of the sensations and noises and laughter blur together after a while — something shifts, and Yuuri's warmth and presence takes on a different edge. His fingers stroke the insides of Viktor's wrists and wander delicately up the tops of his thighs. His breath fans hot and damp over Viktor's neck. His laughter fades off into quiet little hums that vibrate the parts of Viktor's body that touch his husband.

 _Husband husband husband._

The party is still raging around them, and Viktor's blood sings in his veins when Yuuri bites his lip and pulls him up, tugging him firmly by the hand away from their guests and down the hallway, until the noise and the light are distant things and all that surrounds them is the quiet darkness of Yuuri's childhood room.

Yuuri closes the door behind them and slumps against it, laughing weakly. He runs a hand through his hair, and uses the other to tug at Viktor's lapels, wanting him as close as possible. He tips his face up and Viktor can't help the quiet noise in the back of his throat when Yuuri presses their mouths together. A warm, familiar feeling spreads through his chest at the way Yuuri's hands curl against his chest and the way Yuuri tips his head and changes the angle of their mouths. It's a relief, sort of like slipping into the onsen after a long day of training. It's comforting, it's home.

 _Yuuri_ is home.

"I've been wanting to kiss you all night," Yuuri murmurs. His voice is a bit gravelly, and his hands slide down Viktor's chest and slip around his waist, underneath his suit jacket.

"You didn't have to wait, you know," Viktor points out. "I'm a hundred percent sure couples are supposed to show off at their own wedding reception."

"The way I want to kiss you wouldn't have been entirely appropriate in front of an audience," Yuuri says, and Viktor's mind goes blank, because _holy shit_ , and then Yuuri's hand is in his hair, tugging him and dragging him back down for something hotter, wetter, just this side of sloppy.

His husband's mouth tastes like cake and champagne — like a wedding, like celebration — and, under layers of sparkling sweetness, like spring.

Yuuri kisses like he skates — gracefully, emotionally, artlessly. He turns his considerable focus solely onto Viktor, pins him down with nothing but the press of his lips and the slide of his tongue and the edge of his teeth scraping across Viktor's bottom lip. Kissing Yuuri is the best thing. The _best_ thing. Viktor could kiss Yuuri all day, everyday, for the rest of his life, and it still wouldn't be enough. Yuuri's mouth is a thing of beauty — the way it curves when he smiles slow and radiant, like the sun peeking over the horizon after a long night; the shape of his lips when they form Viktor's name; the soft pink of them, and the way they turn dark and shiny and bruised when they kiss or — or do other things.

Viktor moans and presses their chests together, reveling in the solid warmth of his husband's body.

 _Husband husband husband_ , his mind chants. And then —

Oh. Viktor is forgetting something very important, here.

"Wait, Yuuri," Viktor says, pressing his palms against his husband's shoulders to get him to stop.

"Viktor?" Yuuri is breathless and flushed and beautiful, so beautiful, and the way he says his name just —

"I didn't carry you over the threshold."

"Viktor." Flat, unimpressed.

"Come here, Yuuri," Viktor says, pulling Yuuri out of his room and into the hallway. Yuuri gives him a look that's a weird mix of exasperation and heat, and it's enough to make his stomach flip with anticipation, because Yuuri wants him.

(It's not a new revelation, but it's a revelation all the same.)

(Yuuri _wants_ him.)

It shows up often. The way Yuuri links their fingers together while they walk to the rink, or the way he automatically turns his body toward Viktor whenever they're in the same room. Tonight it's in the way his lashes flutter when Viktor's hand spans his jaw and neck, and the way he sighs and clutches at Viktor's wrist when Viktor leans in to kiss him. Like he doesn't want to be apart from Viktor. Like it's written somewhere deep inside him.

He belongs to Viktor, and Viktor belongs to him.

Yuuri gasps when Viktor sweeps him up off his feet, arms around his back and knees. It's a breathy little thing, an exhalation of Viktor's name that makes his toes curl in his dress shoes. Yuuri throws his arms around Viktor's neck in response, and moans low in his throat at the display of strength. Viktor grins and carries him through sideways like a proper husband, mindful of his legs and head. Yuuri kisses him again, hungry and just this side of desperate. Viktor somehow makes it all the way to the bed even though he can only sort of see where he's going — even though his head is full of his husband's warmth and his husband's solid weight in his arms and his husbands lips pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to his jawline.

(His husband is the best kind of distracting.)

Before he realizes it he's hitting the edge of the bed with his knees and they're pitching forward in surprise. Yuuri hits the mattress bouncing, Viktor's name on his lips, voice deep and raspy in a way that makes Viktor think of messed up bedsheets and the smell of sweat. Viktor falls on top of him, cages him in with his palms flat on the mattress and his knees pressed against the outsides of Yuuri's thighs. Yuuri reaches up, tangles his fingers in the short hair at his neck to pull him down to breath against Viktor's mouth, hot and damp.

"My husband," he murmurs after a moment. "Viktor Katsuki-Nikiforov."

So close Viktor can feel Yuuri's mouth form the words against his own. He moans quietly, shivers, lets Yuuri pull him the rest of the way down to lick into his mouth and claim VIktor as his.

His moans turn to whines of complaint when Yuuri presses against his chest, pushing him off.

"Viktor, I'm not ruining my clothes just because you can't keep it in your pants for five minutes," his husband says. His laugh is both joyous and exasperated, fond. It's lovely. Viktor wants to drown in it, wants to fall back into him, wants to pin him down with his hips and his mouth and not let him back up again ever, but, well.

He looks down at himself eyes following the lines of his own suit, his pressed slacks, and then looks back up at Yuuri. Yuuri's traditional wedding clothes are elegant, and as breathtaking as he would look coming undone in them — face flushed, lips red and shining, back arched, nose scrunched up in pleasure —

( _Breathe_ , Nikiforov, holy shit.)

( _Katsuki_ -Nikiforov.)

(Holy _shit_.)

Viktor knows that the pressed silk is expensive, and that there is a cultural importance on taking care of such garments that would have Yuuri frowning at any kind of activity that might rumple them beyond repair. So he will just have to endure the absence of his husband's warmth for a few minutes.

Besides, Viktor's slacks have become uncomfortably tight in the crotch region from their earlier...ministrations.

He clambers off of Yuuri, undresses himself with clumsy, trembling hands. He wants to undress Yuuri too, but is almost afraid that his touch would spoil the silk or the lines folded into the cloth. And anyway, Yuuri is much more graceful at it. He sheds his clothes like he sheds water after stepping out of the onsen; they flow off of him in undulating waves, and caress his skin as they drop. He stands there in the semi-dark, eyes hooded behind his glasses, and folds his wedding hakama up into precise lines and angles.

"To preserve the fabric," he says, voice quiet. His hands are gentle and sweet, reverent; his fingertips caress the silk in the same way he touches Viktor. He's wearing only a small, loving smile. His voice is sweet too, filled with a quiet heat that spreads through Viktor's chest like a blush. Viktor swallows, and swallows again because his mouth is suddenly dry, and reaches out for his husband.

Yuuri's skin is smooth and warm against his palms; he slides his hands up his husband's chest and over his shoulders, fingers tangling in the short hairs at the back of his neck to pull him down. His mouth is a furnace, and as Viktor opens up beneath him Yuuri's tongue laves into his mouth with confidence bred through familiarity. This — the coming together of their bodies, the press of sweat-slick skin, the damp exhalation of breath — is the easiest kind of pas de deux. Yuuri's body is familiar, the stretch and slide of muscles working beneath his skin perfect.

They fuck slowly, gently. Viktor takes time to marvel at Yuuri's body above his, at the sight of him with his legs spread over Viktor's thighs, the way his eyelashes flutter in the waning darkness with each drop down onto Viktor's cock. His husband is gorgeous in the moonlight, glowing and flushed and glistening with sweat. Viktor's hands slide up his legs, the creases of his hips, over the softness of his stomach. He can feel Yuuri's sides expand and contract with each hitched breath, each sharp gasp when he manages to roll his hips down in just the right way. His husband is gorgeous, gorgeous, so expressive even in the half-light of pre-dawn. His eyebrows are drawn tight, eyes half-lidded and trained on Viktor's. They're taking their time drowning in the sensations of sex, still tipsy, still so infatuated with each other.

(People say that marriage and monogamy are boring, Viktor's heard it countless times before — in the rink locker room, words falling from his friends' mouths disguised in laughter. Now though —)

(Now he knows they're unequivocally wrong. Incorrect. _Mistaken_.)

(Viktor has never felt happier than knowing he belongs to Yuuri, has never been so excited to see where his future takes him knowing he's going to be at Yuuri's side. It's beautiful, it's deeply satisfying, that there's one person in the world who knows the most intimate parts of him, physically and mentally. Beautiful that that's a constant.)

Viktor catches sight of his wedding ring as his fingers drift down over Yuuri's fluttering stomach, the curve of his cock. He moans and curls his fingers around Yuuri, stroking in time to his husband's movements. He wonders if it feels even better for Yuuri than usual, with Yuuri's ring on his finger and the warm metal pressed against his cock.

(Wonders what his ring on Yuuri's finger would feel like on him, too.)

Yuuri knows his body by now, knows intimately the what it means when Viktor's breath hitches in his throat. He knows the sounds he makes when he's close, the smoothness of his hips when they roll up into tight heat of Yuuri's ass. Yuuri knows how exactly to take him apart, piece by piece, in the sweetest way possible.

"Viktor, god, _please_ —" Yuuri pants above him, thighs flexing as he works to bring himself off. He's nearly desperate with it, his pupils blown wide and his mouth open and panting through the pleasure. Viktor digs his fingers into his hips, helps him speed up his pace. Yuuri is so tight and hot around him, feels so good _god_ he's so close —

" _Ah_ —"

Yuuri's body stiffens and he cries out as he comes, no heed for the party raging just a few feet away from them. He clamps down on Viktor's cock inside him and rolls his hips as he rides out his own orgasm. Viktor moans at the sight of him — the beautiful flush creeping down his chest and over his thighs, the come painting his chest and abs, the sweet relief etched into the set of his mouth and brows.

In the creeping light of morning, it's a holy experience. Viktor will convert to the Church of Yuuri. Viktor will walk through fire for the chance to worship every inch of this beautiful man. Viktor will —

"Vitya," his husband moans. "Vitya —"

Viktor comes hard, Yuuri's name falling from his lips like a benediction.

The room fills with the sound of their breathing, heavy as they struggle to slow their heart rates. Yuuri folds down onto Viktor, letting Viktor support him. His body is warm, skin damp with sweat and come, but Viktor holds him close. He relishes these moments, loves how his husband feels so blissed out in his arms, his muscles loose and his features utterly relaxed. The pre-dawn light coming through the window throws his body into sharper relief, the shadows and highlights deepening across the expanse of his bare back and arms as he breathes.

"I love you," Viktor whispers. "I think you're the best thing that ever happened to me." His voice is rough from pleasure but his tone is unmistakably adoring, and he feels Yuuri's pleased sigh fan damp across his chest. Yuuri leans up and kisses him softly — his neck, his jawline, his cheek, the corner of his mouth.

"Me, too. I love you."

They stayed curled up together until the sweat cooled on their bodies and Yuuri was grimacing at the mess on his stomach, chest and thighs. They have to sneak away for a shower, laughing and shushing each other as they inch slowly down the hall and try not to get caught, though the party sounds like it's wound down for the late hour. They take turns washing each other's hair and bodies, hands sliding gently along soap-slicked skin, and they take turns drying each other off with fluffy white towels.

When they get back to the bedroom Viktor expects more cuddles, preferably of the naked variety, but Yuuri derails that plan.

"Put your suit back on," he says — commands. His eyes flash in the waxing light, mischievous.

"Yuuuuuri."

"Stop whining, Nikiforov." A playful glance keeps the sting out of his words, but Viktor pouts anyway, mourning the loss of Yuuri's pretty skin as he puts his wedding hakama back on. Viktor's own suit is rumpled nearly beyond repair, a result of his earlier impatience to get his hands on Yuuri.

"We could just wear pyjamas," Viktor points out, but Yuuri just grins and takes him by the hand, leading him through the hallway and into the big banquet room. Viktor smirks just a bit, because there is absolutely no hiding his sex hair or the blissed out, glowing look that suffuses Yuuri's entire being after sex. _Everyone_ is going to know what they just did, if they didn't already, but as they make their way through on tip toes Viktor realizes that the party hadn't just wound down — it had pretty much died.

Scattered left and right were the sleeping forms of their friends and family. Most of them were curled up on the floor but some had passed out right on the table, their hands still weakly gripping mostly empty cups of alcohol. The sound of snoring comes from their right, and Viktor grins at the sight of JJ sleeping with his stomach out, hand stuffed up his shirt and mouth open.

(He briefly considers pausing to snap a photo for Yuri, but his Yuuri seems to be on some kind of mission, so he passes it up.)

(Lucky for JJ.)

Yuuri leads him outside, tugging him by the hand up a small incline. Viktor is curious, but content to let Yuuri keep his secrets for now. And besides, it's a great view — the light is starting to pop over the curve of the horizon, lighting up pretty yellow and orange highlights in Yuuri's mussed hair, the ocean waves reflecting in the lenses of his glasses. Yuuri's small back and supple ass shifting beneath the silk.

Yuuri gives him a knowing look, and Viktor realizes he's been too busy staring at him to notice that they've arrived. He looks around — they've stopped at the bench where he'd interrogated Yuuri about his past lovers.

It's a little different from that time. It's April still, and the world around them is in full bloom — the tree next to the bench is still releasing its blossoms into the air, carried on the ocean breeze, and everything smells sweet like spring.

Had it really been nearly a year since then?

… Had it really _not even been a year_ since then?

A few of the blossoms land on Yuuri — in his hair, on his hakama — and Viktor can't help but lean down to kiss him, pulled in by the gravity of Yuuri's charm.

Yuuri's hold on his hand loosens into a caress, his thumb sweeping across the back of Viktor's hand in gentle movements.

"Um, you know," Yuuri says, suddenly nervous. He flushes all the way down his neck, clearly in embarrassment of what he's about to say, but true to form he's already decided to plow right ahead. This is one of the reasons why Viktor loves him so much. "This, um. This is the first day of the rest of our lives together."

And, wow, he's right. The sun is creeping above the horizon now, casting the purples and blues of night away with its pale pinks and oranges. A new day, a new beginning.

The beginning of forever.

Yuuri startles him by throwing his arms around his shoulders, and choking out a wobbly, "please take care of me!"

Viktor is thrown back to their moment in the airport after Rostelecom Cup, when Yuuri had asked him to take care of him until retirement. Things had been much more uncertain then — their status, Yuuri's feelings, their futures together and apart. He'd known that Yuuri had been keeping something from him, had known he himself was grappling with his own options about his return to skating and how it would affect them.

The words are the same, the hug is the same, but now there are no uncertainties, no secrets.

Now there is only the weight of Yuuri's ring on his finger and the solid strength of his husband beside him. Now, in the brilliant light of the sunrise — _the first day of the rest of their lives_ — there is only —

" _Forever_."

Viktor marries Yuuri in April beneath a sky full of swirling pink cherry blossoms, and will spend every day of the rest of his life loving him.

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 **an:** thanks for readin!


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